Saturday. Rain. Kensington District, Morstan House.
London rain always falls without warning. Only thirty minutes ago, the sun was shining. Now, leaden clouds shrouded the sky. Fine rain pattered down, making the whole city feel damp and cold.
Mary sat in her room, holding a cup of hot tea. The smell drifted in the air, steam coiling slowly and misting the glass with a white haze.
The girl was feeling irritable—not because of the endless rain, but from the stifling atmosphere that had hung over the family for days.
Her father, Duke Morstan, hadn't shown for dinner three nights in a row. The study door was always tightly shut. Sometimes, hushed voices leaked out, laced with restrained anger and irritation. Expensive cigars and whiskey disappeared faster than ever.
Yet, not seeing the man wasn't necessarily a bad thing for Mary. But days and days of avoiding him wasn't a good sign. The cause dated back to last Sunday—the day The Times exposed Ethan Roy's scandalous affair.
At first, Mary had been pleased, while her father was indifferent. The Morstan and Roy families did business, but not closely enough to be entangled. If something happened to the Roys and Ethan Roy lost power, they could cut ties anytime. Ending projects early and making their position clear could shield them from the storm—maybe even net a profit.
Unfortunately, both father and daughter underestimated Mycroft.
The British government performed a much colder, more subtle purge than anyone expected.
Mycroft's purges were not dramatic, but gradual and nuanced: routine business reviews, sudden suspension of shipping permits, stricter loan conditions. When Duke Morstan realized something was amiss, the invisible hand was already tightening around the Morstans' neck. The family fortune drifted ever closer to the danger zone.
Mary scowled, gripping her glass unconsciously. She wasn't upset over potential family losses—such things had nothing to do with her. Mycroft might seem to be suppressing the Morstans, but he'd never let them fall into ruin. He needed giants like theirs to survive—or, rather, Britain needed them. After all, the Morstan company alone created thousands of jobs a year. If they went bankrupt, the jobless would surely march to Buckingham Palace with torches.
So these weren't Mary's true concerns. She worried about the man inside the study.
Living and living comfortably are different things. Only God knew what he'd do to stem his losses.
Just then, a man's voice came from outside the door.
"Mary."
Always when you shouldn't bring it up, Mary thought.
"I'm here, Father," Mary answered.
His voice was low, almost commanding and left no room for argument.
"Change into something proper. We're leaving in five minutes."
"Where to...?"
"Lloyd's Bank."
He finished, leaving her in the room alone with a tinge of confusion in her eyes.
Why the bank? There wasn't anything they could get there, surely. Their last loan application had already been rejected two days before... She didn't understand.
Irritation welled up again. Still, Mary obediently set down her cup, rose, and entered the dressing room.
Opening her immense cypress wardrobe revealed a lineup of elegant dresses for every occasion—a collection of masks. Her gaze drifted over the choices, finally settling on a long black dress: no frills, a high collar hiding her pale neck, long sleeves to her wrists. Modest and tasteful for a public place like a bank.
Five minutes later, Mary appeared at the door, punctual. Duke Morstan was waiting there. He glanced at her dress and only nodded, turning for the exit. Mary followed quietly.
The carriage wound through rain-drenched streets. Inside, it was deathly silent. Mary looked at her hands in white lace gloves.
"Father," she finally broke the suffocating silence. "Are we going to Lloyd's for a new investment project?"
"You'll see when we arrive," replied the duke with his usual calm—as if there was no family crisis.
Mary wisely held her tongue and waited. The carriage stopped at the grand entrance of Lloyd's Bank. A porter with an umbrella led them into the lobby, where dryness and warmth shut out the cold in seconds.
Duke Morstan walked to the desk, spoke to the receptionist, who then dialed a phone. After a brief exchange, the call ended. Several minutes later, a finely dressed man approached with a practiced, gold-digger's smile.
"Mr. Morstan, Miss Morstan," he greeted smoothly.
"Hello, Mr. Tommy," Mary replied gently.
"My lord, we have a private meeting room prepared to discuss matters in detail," Tommy offered.
"Very well." Duke Morstan replied weakly, stepping forward. Passing Mary, he gave a curt order without looking at her, "Wait here."
"Yes, Father." Mary answered, perfectly at ease.
She watched her father and Tommy disappear down the hallway; the heavy, brass-trimmed oak doors closed softly.
Mary found a velvet sofa by the wall and sat with poise, ignoring the curious glances her father's arrival had drawn. She sipped the tea offered by the waiter and pondered the purpose of this trip.
What could they possibly do at the bank? Collateral, assets, or perhaps trusts being transferred? Her father needed a large sum to cover the hole left by Mycroft. The bank was the only option. She, herself, represented familial reliability and dignity by presenting herself well.
Mary sipped her tea. Not particularly good, but better than nothing. She began people-watching to pass the time: the layout, guards, passersby. Merchants hurrying past, anxious wealthy women, well-dressed young men... Each person was an open book—identity, purpose, emotion plain to see.
Mary scanned the crowd languidly, feeling bored. But as her eyes traced the regular counters, she suddenly froze.
She saw him from behind. His back wasn't perfectly straight, slightly hunched—a touch lazy. He wore a khaki trench coat, standing out from the other suit-clad patrons.
Yet the familiar silhouette, the seemingly casual stance, made her heart skip a beat.
Mary snapped upright, blue eyes brightening with sudden focus.
What you keep in your mind, eventually appears before you.
….